


Things I Have Loved I'm Allowed to Keep

by Irrealia



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bilbo is awful, Dark fluff, Dark!Bilbo, Dark!Thorin, Everyone is awful, Everything is terrible, Except actually Thranduil, Lightly Smutty, M/M, Mercy Killing, Minor Character Death, Thorin is awful, a tiny bit of bondage, except for Bilbo and Thorin's love, let me reiterate that everything is terrible, references to violence, that's still pretty beautiful, you don't live to be 6000+ without being pretty perceptive and canny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:32:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7266454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo has the ring. Thorin has the Arkenstone. Which one of them is worse? </p><p>Middle Earth probably doesn’t want to think too hard about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things I Have Loved I'm Allowed to Keep

**Author's Note:**

> First of all: Thanks to [Gimleafanatic](http://gimleafanatic.tumblr.com) aka [TAFKAB](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB) for excellent beta-ing! Thank you for asking the hard questions <3
> 
> This story owes its genesis to a conversation with [mithrilbikini](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com), where she commented that she’d never seen Bilbo and Thorin try to out-DFP each other. Mith also deserves additional thanks for loudly and enthusiastically cheering on the darkfluff. 
> 
> But it’s also worth citing any number of other influences here like:  
> \- [This awesome (and super hot) comic about dark!power couple Bilbo and Thorin](http://dwaroxxx.tumblr.com/post/53868884870/long-live-the-king-the-king-is-dead-your-prayers) by @dwaroxxx  
> \- [Iraya’s evil!bagginshield art](http://iraya.tumblr.com/post/144029970464).  
> \- Avelera’s meta about the economics of Erebor and what might practically happen in a society with that much gold.  
> \- A metadiscursive trend bemoaning Bilbo’s lack of chances to be evil.
> 
> Evil is the worst when it's charming and reasonable. Bilbo is really good at that.

Bilbo himself had told Gandalf that he’d changed, on the quest, and indeed, Thorin had not failed to mark the changes. Something in Bilbo grew a little harder, and stranger—a little grave, a little quiet, maybe even a little cruel—as they progressed towards the mountain.

There was something in the way he’d toyed with the spiders that gave Thorin pause, the way he’d taunted them before killing them.

Then again, it was only a moment’s pause. They were giant spiders, and they were trying to eat his entire company. A little cruelty was probably warranted.

And Thorin was perhaps, at the time, growing a little more distant himself, as the mountain approached. Everything in his mind’s eye gleamed, whether it was memories of his grandfather’s treasure lit by the blazing light of dragon fire, or the memory of the dragon himself, all shining scales lit from within by unsanctified flame.

Bilbo gleamed too, when his thoughts drifted towards the fierce little hobbit, golden and precious. Surely, if he was different now, it was only that he was becoming something of a warrior. Surely, given what they were facing, that had to be a good thing.

 

~◎~

 

“I will not treat with anyone while there is an army at my door,” said Thorin, cold and bright as sun on snow. Bilbo stood at his side, his fingers twirling something in his pocket. It was a familiar gesture by now, and it warmed Thorin slightly to see it. “It’s as if they never trusted you, not really,” said Bilbo. “And after I vouched for you and everything.” His round face was twisted into a scowl that should have been ugly, but which just made Thorin want to kiss it off his face.

The dwarves made ready for battle, and it was a foregone conclusion that Bilbo would stand with them. As the rest of the company picked through the splendid armour that remained untouched in Erebor’s stores, Thorin drew Bilbo quietly aside, then held up a shirt of fine mail that gleamed white and yellow in the torchlight. “You’re going to need this. Put it on,” said Thorin softly, that none of the others might hear. “This vest is made of silver steel. Mithril, it was called by my forebears. No blade can pierce it.”

Bilbo gave Thorin a sceptical look, but he removed his jacket and slid the light coat of mail over his shirt. His fingers ran appreciatively over the shining metal, turning the little rings as they passed. “Surely this is too precious,” said Bilbo, who was not wholly ignorant of the value of mithril.

“It is a gift,” said Thorin. “A token of our friendship.” He took Bilbo by the arm, pulling him even deeper into the shadows, farther away from the company. “True friends are hard to come by,” he hissed. “I have been blind, but now I begin to see. I am betrayed!”

“Betrayed?” asked Bilbo, low and conspiratorial.

“The Arkenstone,” replied Thorin. “One of them has taken it.” He looked briefly back at the merry group his company made, readying themselves for war. “One of them is _false_.”

“No,” said Bilbo, who pulled his tattered blue jacket over the mithril, in tacit acceptance of the gift, and then tugged a fabric-wrapped bundle from its pocket. “I stole it from Smaug, just as you asked, and I have had it ever since. But,” and here too Bilbo cast a glance over at the assembled dwarves behind them, “I didn’t know when it would be safe to give it to you.”

Thorin crushed the stone to his chest, pressed it tight against his armour, almost as if he were trying to press it _into_ the armour. Then he raised a hand to Bilbo’s cheek, caressing him as tenderly as he might, skilful hands careful even covered in gilt gauntlets. “My burglar,” he murmured, low and soft, and then he nuzzled against Bilbo’s ear. “This gold is ours, and ours alone. By my life, I will not part with a single coin.”

Bilbo kissed him then, sudden and hard, knocking teeth against lips. Thorin tasted blood as their mouths opened to each other, and he wasn’t sure whose it was, but the taste was sweet. When they parted, Bilbo pulled something else from his pocket: a little golden ring, plain, and unassuming, but which somehow drew the eye.

“Let’s have no more secrets then,” said Bilbo, and his eyes were bright, lit from within by some unknown fire. “I found this in the goblin tunnels, and when I put it on, well, it’s rather strange, but it seems to make me invisible. I'm just a hobbit, after all, and we have no real magic of our own. The ring was how I got past the goblins, and how I fought the spiders, and the ring helped me hide in Mirkwood, unseen by even the elves. And I’ll use it in the battle, if I must, to shadow you and keep you safe, the same way you’ve kept me safe this whole time.” He paused and swallowed hard, then turned his bravest face up to Thorin. “Erebor is ours, and I won’t let anyone take your home from you again.”

 

~◎~

 

There was no need for Bilbo’s ring, in the end, or even the mail shirt. Thorin and Dáin had arranged everything by raven. However small Thorin’s company might be, they would be needed within the mountain to make sure the treasures of their people remained safe during the battle, with so many factions trying to claim them. Neither Oakenshield nor Ironfoot underestimated the ingenuity, tenacity, or ferocity of even a small group of dwarves in holding a mountain under siege. Thorin’s company was small, but they had come this far, and they could handle it.

Kíli had wanted to fight, had _begged_ to fight, but Bilbo had made him see sense eventually. They would fight only if they had to, only if the men and elves brought the fight to their door. It was hard to be patient, perhaps, but Thorin and Dáin had given them all this most precious of tasks.

It was only when silence had reigned outside the mountain for some hours that Thorin reluctantly allowed Bilbo, kitted out with both ring and mail shirt, to check that the battle was over, to make sure his own people had won the day. When Bilbo’s report made it clear that it would be safe to go out, he went with a team of his most loyal and doughty dwarves to survey the carnage and give succour to the survivors. The ravens of Erebor were already feeding amongst the corpses, disdaining the foul bodies of orcs, but ravaging men and elves and dwarves alike.

Azog’s body was perfect and whole where he had fallen, save for the great red thrust through his breast, a mighty killing stroke. Dáin lay next to him, broken but not yet dead. Thorin greeted him with love, gave him mercy, and then wept onto Bilbo’s shoulder—Bilbo, who had steadfastly walked beside him across the vast battlefield, aiding the wounded, and singing glory to the dead.

A few feet below, on the rocks of Ravenhill, lay the mangled body of Thorin Stonehelm, who had fallen defending his father. The ravens had already taken his eyes.

 

~◎~

 

Thorin II Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, was crowned on the same day that preternaturally large, war-like bronze statues of Dáin Ironfoot and Thorin Stonehelm were erected in the refurbished Hall of Kings. During the coronation, the long-lost Arkenstone was returned to its place of honour above the lofty throne of Erebor; the raven crown sat at last on the head of the rightful king, acknowledged by all who had survived the battle. The stone seemed almost satisfied, and glowed so brightly that it illuminated the whole hall in shades of silver and green. Every dwarf who was present that day could not help but think that Thorin had been right to guard it so jealously.

Bilbo sat beside him, clad in dwarven furs, a circlet of mithril in his golden hair to match the mail that glimmered underneath a tunic of deep blue. His shaggy hair had two short, thick braids beside each ear to match Thorin’s, and his golden ring hung on a chain around his neck now, where he could always be sure of it. He too, received his honours, as the saviour of the Arkenstone. They called him the pillar of the throne, and they bound his hand to Thorin’s with chains of bright steel. Bilbo and Thorin whispered vows in Khuzdul and exchanged kisses before the crowd, their union blessed by the heart of the mountain and accepted by its people.

There were ceremonies for Fíli too, although they were more somber, with Fíli clad in the stone grey of deep mourning. He was to be made Prince Regent of the Iron Hills, and Balin was to go with him, to teach him the arts of ruling. Dwalin too: he would not be parted from his brother, he insisted, and he would need to show what remained of Dáin’s army that Fíli could be trusted to lead wisely and well.

“There’s no need to look sad, cousin,” said Thorin, when Dwalin came to inform his king of his decision, face pinched and pained. He clapped Dwalin heartily on the shoulder. “I can’t say that Erebor can easily spare you, but just think of all the sad dams and dwarrows in the Iron Hills that you can bring a bit of happiness to.”

“Aye,” said Dwalin, “I could use a little more happiness and a little less death. And you’ve got Bilbo to see to you now don’t you.”

Thorin pressed a fond kiss to Dwalin’s forehead at that, and then leaned in for a moment, just breathing the same air as his dearest lieutenant, the steadfast companion of most of his life. Dwalin shuddered a bit at Thorin’s touch, but it was an emotional time for all of them.

Thorin took comfort in Bilbo, as the most faithful of his dwarves departed for new adventures, and took comfort in the fact that his rule now extended from the Ered Luin to the Iron Hills, with Erebor standing once again as the stronghold of Durin’s folk. He slept soundly at night with the hobbit at his side, and ruled with the strong arm of an ironsmith during the day.

 

~◎~

 

Erebor prospered, and Dale struggled, though with Bilbo’s help they negotiated some measure of trade, produce and meat and grain in exchange for gold. The negotiations were easy, really. Bain was far too young to be king, and few were qualified to advise him. Bilbo was happy to help, and assured him that Erebor only had Dale’s interests at heart—and hadn’t he vouched for the king when he had first returned to the east? Had not the king made good his promise to the Men of Esgaroth and Dale? But, cautioned Bilbo, sometimes what looked like help might actually bring more harm in the long run. They had to be careful. The dwarves couldn’t simply give the men of Dale all the gold they wanted, nay, deserved, for if they did so, the gold would soon become worthless. Then both Erebor and Dale would be shining cities with starving citizens, and they couldn’t have _that_ , now could they.

Bain agreed, of course. He had a vague feeling that his father might have argued with Erebor’s prince consort, but Bard had never quite been the same after the battle, and when he took sick in the winter that followed hard on its heels, well, the end had been quick at least. Whatever objections he might have voiced to the treaties between Erebor and Dale died with him. They did _seem_ a little uneven, but Bilbo explained it so neatly, and he always brought Bain particularly nice gifts from the dwarven craftsmen, to help impress upon the other men his kingly status and the support of Erebor’s monarch, in spite of the lad’s youth and inexperience.

 

~◎~

 

Thorin and Bilbo travelled, sometimes. It was pleasant to relive that feeling of being free and wild and on the road, even if they travelled in greater comfort now, with tents of heavy felt embroidered with the sigil of Durin’s line, with bedding of silk, with armed guards. One of their first trips was to Ered Luin, where Dís yet ruled in Thorin’s name. Bilbo had worked himself up into a frenzy over her most recent letters, in which she claimed that the taxes that Thorin’s council had approved were unreasonable, nay, impossible—downright devastating to the well-being of Ered Luin’s citizens. His younger sister was one of the few people for whom Thorin had infinite patience, but none of the letters he’d sent in return seemed to placate her.  

Both of them had felt better after Bilbo had gently tugged him into bed, chaining him fast with mithril cuffs lined with velvet padding that not even the fiercest of warriors could have hoped to escape. Bilbo made love to him so sweetly, and at such length, with such cruel languor, that all thoughts of Dís’ troubles were banished, at least for the night. In the morning, sleepy and sated, they began to arrange a travelling party to see how Ered Luin fared. Dís was less fiery in person, more awkward and sad than he remembered her. Thorin embraced her and offered to bring her to Erebor, to show her how all the tribute from Ered Luin was being put to use—to show her the glory they were building, even more fabulous than the height of Erebor under Thror. Bilbo had embraced her too, and patiently explained the economics of it all. In the end Dís had to agree that they had the right of it, and wept like a true and loving sister when at last they took their leave.

The people of Ered Luin hailed Dís as their queen, and Thorin as their emperor.

 

~◎~

 

They went to the Shire once, to retrieve some things that Bilbo particularly missed, which as it turned out required bribing several of Bilbo’s more disagreeable relations with more gold than Thorin liked to think about.

They decided the experience was not worth repeating, after paying for extensive repairs to the Green Dragon.

 

~◎~

 

With Bilbo’s affairs in the Shire settled, that old life behind them forever, the decades passed in a golden haze. Sometimes Thorin almost couldn’t believe Bilbo was his, and _his alone_. Over the years, he decorated Bilbo’s warm brown body with golden earrings and cuffs specially made for his pointed ears. Bilbo grew his sandy hair long, and Thorin braided fine gold chains dripping with emeralds into it, made it gleam golden with scented oils. With time he cajoled Bilbo into piercing his soft nipples, promising that they would be more sensitive this way, threading golden rings through fat flesh. Golden bracelets adorned his wrists and his bare ankles, but he would wear no rings save the one about his neck.

Bilbo was his _gabsh_ , his treasure, and indeed, he sometimes thought in his weaker moments that when he took Bilbo, plunged himself into his beloved’s body, that it was like making love to some radiant, ever-youthful spirit of gold itself. Bilbo was so soft and pliant sometimes, almost absent, filled with something that seemed greater than himself. Bilbo was the earth itself waiting, filled with riches for dwarves to delve and discover.

Thorin was emperor of the dwarves, the greatest scion of Durin’s line, and Bilbo was _his_ , the golden pillar of his throne.

 

~◎~

 

Long lived as the dwarves were, it took awhile for them to notice. It was the men of Dale who first observed that even as the years passed, the Pillar of the Throne did not seem to age, although he was a hobbit, and his life ought to have been not much longer than the span allotted to men. Indeed, if anything he seemed ever younger with the years, more radiant, and it was not simply the reflected light of the gems that the adoring emperor lavished upon him.

Thorin did age, but slowly, much more slowly than one might expect for a dwarf over two hundred. His night-black, star-spangled hair took its sweet time to change fully to silver; a few additional lines crinkled around his eyes. _Deathless_ , the dwarves of Erebor began to whisper of Thorin Thrainul. Of Bilbo, they whispered nothing at all, but prostrated themselves in fear and trembling when he passed in a whisper of soft feet on stone and a rustle of golden silk.

 

~◎~

 

They visited the Iron Hills with some regularity, and saw that it was happy and thriving under the rule of their golden prince. “You are too soft with them, though,” admonished Thorin, when they were alone and away from the rest of Fíli’s court. “You are a prince of Durin’s line, heir to the vast empire of Durin’s folk.” He pulled Fíli into an embrace, resting his forehead against that of his dear nephew. “You think to be kind by encouraging your people to rest, and to make merry in these years of peace and prosperity that we now enjoy, but the way of dwarves has always been to find pleasure in labour. Where would Erebor be without the support of the dwarves of the Iron Hills?” He clapped Fíli on the back. “We are building this empire together, and the Iron Hills are Erebor’s strong arm. You must rule them as such.”

“We should look to the east,” said Bilbo, on their next visit, reviewing Fíli’s affairs, accounts of tribute and military readiness. “We have so few ties with the dwarves of the Orocarni mountains, and I think—perhaps you know better, Thorin—I think it would be well if they could be allies of Erebor. Fíli, have you thought of marriage?”

“There’s a thought,” said Thorin. “A fine dam will make a fine alliance, and there will be grand nephews to continue the royal line. I’ll start drawing up letters at once, Fíli, and we should have a portrait of you commissioned to send with them.”

Fíli cast a glance at Kíli, who’d come along with Thorin and Bilbo this time, to see the dear brother from whom he had spent so much time parted. Kíli, for his part, looked steadfastly at the floor. “I have devoted myself to the craft of kingship all these years,” answered Fíli, in measured tones that befitted the king he was becoming. “If marrying will further my craft, then I shall look forward to this new apprenticeship.”

Kíli left the room abruptly; Thorin simply shook his head. The boy was well over 100 now, and still acting like a dwarfling about anything that threatened to take his brother away from him. “I’ll go after him,” said Bilbo, laying a reassuring hand on Thorin’s broad forearm. “Perhaps we should find someone for Kíli too. After all, where one goes, the other must follow.”

Thorin nodded. “You’re right of course, _umralê_ ,” he murmured into Bilbo’s hair, giving his prince an affectionate nuzzle. “Do you think he’ll actually sit still for a portrait?”

 

~◎~

 

A few years after the boys were settled, each married to a noble lady of the Red Mountains, life was easier and more pleasant than ever. Spices and luxuries now flowed from the east along the route cleared by promises of eternal friendship between the lords of the Orocarni and the lords of Erebor, and gold flowed from the west in return.

“Moria,” said Bilbo one day, lying in bed whilst Thorin massaged his feet.

“What of it, _uzbadê_?” asked Thorin, pausing to nestle a kiss atop the soft clean fur on Bilbo’s ankle.

“Now that Fíli’s married, Balin wants to go reclaim it,” said Bilbo. One of his hands combed lazily through Thorin’s hair, whilst the other toyed with his ring in a too-familiar gesture. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. They tell such horrible stories about Durin’s Bane, you know, and I’m so fond of Balin, love. I’d hate to see him hurt after everything we’ve been through.”

Thorin startled at that, looking up from Bilbo’s feet. “Of course he wants to reclaim it. The treasures of our ancestors are there, plundered by the orcs. It is a quiet torture every day to those of the line of Durin, to know that we have not yet reclaimed the great halls of Khazad-dûm.”

Bilbo snorted softly. “There are no dwarves in Dwarrowdelf now, and every other dwarf stronghold in Arda is our friend, our ally, my precious.” He gave Thorin’s hair another stroke, and tugged at it a little, smiling a knowing smile as Thorin shivered underneath him. “It would be sweet to reclaim its treasures, but I fear the price we might have to pay for them, when only relics are to be gained.

It was Thorin’s turn to scoff. “Are you saying Balin is not mighty enough for the task?”

“Your grandfather wasn’t,” said Bilbo.

“I think we have long since determined that I am not my grandfather.” Quiet and grave, Thorin laid his head on Bilbo’s soft feet, and sighed.

“No,” agreed Bilbo mildly, looking down fondly at his husband. “You are not your grandfather. And I don't doubt that Balin could defeat what scattered orcs and goblins remain there after the Battle of the Five Armies, if we send him with a sufficient force. But there is still the matter of Durin’s Bane.”

Bilbo’s eyes clouded over as he spoke, as if his own words had triggered something within him, and Thorin felt a strange chill creep up his spine. He squirmed up the bed along Bilbo’s body to wrap himself around his consort, to stroke his hair while Bilbo lost himself in thought, pressing kisses along the soft curve of neck and shoulder.

Finally, Bilbo spoke again.

“Has no one ever tried actually _speak_ to the Balrog? The dwarves of Arda might never fear for their homes again, if we had a Balrog as an ally. No dragon could ever touch Erebor, nor Ered Mithrin, nor any other hall of the Khazâd.”

Thorin wrapped his arms around Bilbo ever more tightly. “It’s madness, _uzbadê_.”

“Hmmmm. But didn't they used to say you were mad?”

No one now would dare call Thorin II Oakenshield mad. Had the wisdom of his actions at every turn not been demonstrated by history?

“They did, and I do not have it in me to deny Balin, _uzbadê_ , if he wishes to see what has become of Khazad-dûm. If you wish him to stay here, you will have to persuade him, and if you wish him to carry out some darker errand…”

Bilbo laughed soft and low and turned in Thorin’s arms to face him, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. He ran a hand back up to Thorin’s hair, but instead of stroking it softly, he pulled at it hard enough to make Thorin wince.

“I’m quite persuasive when I want to be, my love,” said Bilbo as he dragged Thorin’s head back and licked a long stripe up his vulnerable neck, nipping at his jaw. “Are you sure you want to leave this in my hands?”

Thorin didn't answer.

Bilbo devoured his mouth.

Some months later, Balin left for Khazad-dûm.

 

~◎~

 

The orcs had simply been… gone. Ori wrote that they had seen vast forces of orcs and goblins in the Misty Mountains, but they were all heading south, driven by fierce Uruk-Hai. When they arrived in Khazad-dûm, there had only been stragglers left, easily defeated with only one or two casualties. Of Durin’s Bane, there had been whispers, and Balin had been unwilling to discuss the subject with Ori, but thus far, they remained conspicuously untroubled.

Thorin was so pleased, he didn’t even mind depriving Erebor of the gold and supplies required to establish Balin’s colony there firmly, along with some of Erebor’s finest historians and scholars, to help catalogue the discoveries.

Bilbo sent letters along with them, urging Balin and Ori not to waste their energies pursuing the orcs to the south, but rather to focus on the restoration of Durin’s halls. After all, it would please Thorin so.

 

~◎~

 

Bain died, after a long life well lived. His eldest son Brand was installed as king in his place, in a ceremony Thorin insisted on overseeing personally, on behalf of the long-standing friendship between the dwarves of Erebor and the men of Dale.

Unlike his father, Brand came to the throne mature and ready. Thorin had seen to it that the finest dwarf tutors were sent to Dale to assist with his education. It was only natural then, having helped raise the boy himself, in a way, that Thorin should feel so fond of the new king. He commissioned a crown for Brand that was chased with martial designs in mithril—a luxury the dwarves could afford now, with the colony at Khazad-dûm thriving as it had not done since the days of Durin VI. They had delved deep and discovered new veins, incredibly pure, and the wealth of the dwarves was greater than it had ever been since the forging of Arda.

 

~◎~

 

A day came when Gandalf arrived, worn and grey as ever, as fixed in his perpetual age as Bilbo was in his perpetual youth.

“I thought I would find you changed, Bilbo Baggins,” said Gandalf when he was escorted before the throne, “And so you are, but not as I expected. I had also thought to bring you good news.”

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed slightly. “It has been a long time, old friend, and the world itself is changed. It’s good to see you, but I have to ask: do you no longer bring me news? Or is the news no longer good?”

“Perhaps that is for you to judge,” said Gandalf diplomatically. He could do that sometimes, Thorin recalled, and wondered why he now thought Bilbo, of all people, merited the effort. “The creature Gollum, whom you met nearly 70 years ago now in the Misty Mountains, has been captured. I have just come from escorting him to Mirkwood, where he now resides as King Thranduil’s prisoner.”

Bilbo blinked one, two, three times, and stared hard at Gandalf. “The Elvenking is no friend to Erebor, Gandalf, and yet you have delivered him a creature who wishes me dead.” Bilbo stood up, nearly shaking with anger. Thorin had never seen him thus, not in all the long years they had spent together, and he reached out a hand to comfort and steady him, but Bilbo simply swatted it away. “And somehow,” Bilbo continued, only keeping his voice steady by some tremendous effort, “you imagined this would be good news.”

Gandalf, much to his credit, did not quail in the face of Bilbo’s rage, nor did he lose his own temper. “There are greater evils in the world than Gollum, Bilbo Baggins, and that poor wretch carries secrets I think you would rather see kept. Do you not prefer him safe in Thranduil’s care?” Gandalf even laughed a bit, merry in memory, a figure come out of joint with time. “I think he has secured his dungeons more thoroughly than the last time you were in them.”

Something in Gandalf’s laughter seemed to soften Bilbo. He sagged a bit where he stood, and when Thorin stood to wrap his arms around him and steady him, he sank gratefully into the emperor’s embrace, turning his head to nuzzle Thorin’s hand.

“If you wouldn’t mind Gandalf, I don’t suppose you could have Thranduil deliver him here? I do believe the vaults of Erebor still hold treasures that might tempt him, and Gollum would be a worthy exchange.” Bilbo craned his head around to look at Thorin. “If you consent, of course, my love.”

Of course he did. Thorin had difficulty imagining that Bilbo could ever ask him for anything he would not willingly give.

 

~◎~

 

The white gems of Lasgalen were arrayed on a cushion of fine midnight velvet, which itself sat atop a golden pillar tall enough to put them at the right height for Thranduil’s inspection. The pillar stood in front of the dais where Thorin and Bilbo regarded the proceedings from their thrones, raised even higher than the Elvenking.

“You have left them untouched all these years,” said Thranduil, marvelling. “Your restraint is to be commended.”

“Not restraint,” said Bilbo. His voice was soft and yet from where he sat beside Thorin, it reverberated throughout the throne room, a cunning part of the design. “Respect. It is not as if the people of Erebor do not know how to cherish stones of great beauty and worth, or the skill of the craftsman who set them in this design.”

“And I see a hobbit has learnt to cherish them as well,” said Thranduil.

“When you love someone,” said Bilbo, “you learn to hold dear the things that matter to them.”

Thranduil nodded slowly. His eyes lingered long on Bilbo; they had seen each other but little over the years. Many elvish lives had been lost at the Battle of the Five Armies, and Thranduil had allied himself with the men and dwarves only so far as self-preservation demanded. He had kept to himself afterwards, had not interfered with the growing might of Erebor and its colonies, its allies, its trading partners.

“Gandalf said that you were changed, master Baggins, and I see he spoke truly.” Thranduil gave a half turn to address Thorin. “I regret to inform your majesties that there is no price for which I would sell the creature Gollum, but I will pay the price Thror requested for these gems, which have long been a cause for rancor between us.”

Bilbo’s eyes darkened, and his back stiffened, but he said nothing. Thorin looked at his husband, his face unsettlingly pale in the eerie light of the Arkenstone. _“Gabshê, ashgamruki, ini mabihi zud id-uzbadu fanâd.”_

 _“Astu lu huhud, ‘ibinê, ini lu mahariki hû,”_ replied Bilbo, his voice a harsh whisper. This, too, reverberated around the throne room, and the dwarves who heard him nodded in agreement.

“Your generous offer is accepted,” said Thorin, switching back to the common tongue. “And we hope this will be the start of greater cooperation between our peoples.” He paused for a fraction of a second. “Furthermore, we extend our trust to you in the matter of the creature Gollum, who as you know poses a grave threat to my beloved consort.” He reached across the arm of his throne and stroked Bilbo’s hand softly, trying to will the visible tension out of him.

Thranduil inclined his head in the slightest of acknowledgements. “I will do what I can in that regard, although I do not think Erebor is so defenseless that master Baggins’ safety is solely in my hands.”

 

~◎~

 

Bilbo began to watch the east. He rose before Thorin, some hobbitish sense of his still attuned to the rhythms of the earth, and watched the sun come up every morning, keeping a silent vigil. Word eventually came from Mirkwood that Gollum had escaped. No wonder Bilbo was so worried.

Sometimes Thorin joined him, to bring him a warm cloak, or simply to wrap his arms around Bilbo. But Bilbo was always stiff and grim, and something about the morning light seemed to reflect the long years onto his face.

 

~◎~

 

“I dreamed you were dead,” said Bilbo one morning. “You were dead, you’d been dead for years and I was in Rivendell, growing old without you.”

“I would never let that happen,” said Thorin. “Letting you grow old among the elves—how could I?” He thought perhaps he should have lost interest years ago—age was supposed to do that—but he still ached daily for the touch of his beloved. He drew a shaking Bilbo into his arms and kissed him until all dreams seemed foolish and the heavy and present reality of their bodies was the only thing that mattered.

 

~◎~

 

A rider clothed in black, his face hidden by a great hood, came from the east at dawn. He—it seemed male—was not from the Orocarni, nor from any other land Thorin recognised. The messenger’s voice was an eldritch thing that carried without the mountain and within, as if everyone who heard him stood before him.

His message was this: “Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain! Bring forth your consort, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. I would parley with you.”

Thorin, alarmed, rushed to the ramparts above the main gate of Erebor, looking out at the black rider on his black horse, who was waiting with inhuman patience on the other side of the River Running. Then he looked up to see Bilbo descending from the balcony where he had been keeping his daily vigil, slowly and steadily, almost as if it wasn’t he himself doing the walking, obedient to the rider’s call in a distinctly un-Bilbo-ish way.

“And what do you want with us?” called down Thorin. “Who are you, that the princes of Erebor must heed your call?”

“Your consort knows who I am,” said the rider, and Thorin could almost feel his breath against his ear, so close he sounded. “You see him there now, coming to meet me.”

Thorin closed his eyes. He could _hear_ Bilbo’s soft footfalls. He could _smell_ the scent of his hair oil, of the herbs that kept his closets fresh. Before long, Bilbo was beside him on the ramparts, and his hand was clasped over Thorin’s reassuringly.

“I am here,” said Bilbo. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

The simple greeting made Thorin smile a little, and for a moment, it was as if Bilbo’s furs and finery were stripped away, as if he were the same unassuming gentlehobbit he’d met that night lo these many years ago. A wave of fondness surged through him.

“My master thanks you for your faithful service, and for the care you have taken of his ring,” began the rider. He did not say who his master was, and anger flared in Thorin at the thought of Bilbo serving someone else.

Bilbo, however, listened calmly, face wan and awful in the morning light. With the slightest tilt of his head, he answered the rider. “I suppose he wants it back now.”

“The time has come. The creature Gollum has revealed our secrets in his flight from the Elvenking’s care. They know about the ring. Even now, our enemies are gathering those who call themselves wise, and the time is coming when we will need to stand openly against them.”

Bilbo nodded quietly. Thorin simply listened, hands balled into tight fists at his side.

“But you are dear to him, Bilbo Baggins. My master offers you and his majesty Thorin, second of his name, styled Oakenshield, three of the dwarf rings of his forebears in exchange for it, along with the continued enjoyment of the ageless and prosperous life it has brought you.”

“All that, for the ring?”

“For the ring, and for your friendship, for the support of your armies should ours be threatened, and for the support of ours, in your own time of need. Let the East be united, Lord Halfling.”

Bilbo nodded again, his expression utterly unsurprised.

“Bilbo,” said Thorin, low and soft beside him—even though he had a feeling that the rider could hear anything he might say. Still, he was angry, and as comprehension dawned, a frisson of fear shook his great strong frame. “There is only one who could make such an offer, and my folk were forged by Mahal that we might defy him.”

Thorin reached for his sword.

Bilbo stayed his hand, and turned his beautiful face up to his husband, unchanged from the day they met, an avatar of beauty and wealth.

“Thorin,” said Bilbo, intertwining their fingers, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. “What do you think we’ve been building together, all these years?”

The question surprised him, but the answer was easy. “We have built an empire of dwarves so mighty that none might threaten us again. We have raised up my people. We have given them a home. We have given them such great wealth that none need be poor.”

Bilbo stroked a hand tenderly over Thorin’s cheek, and he melted into it. “And with the aid of this ring, with the aid of its master, I’ve helped you do all that. Oh my brave love, my Thorin, you’ve loved your people with a fierce and jealous love, just as you’ve loved me. But how do you think you’ll keep all of us safe if you refuse this offer of alliance? Will you put your people to the sword, Thorin? Will you let your people _and_ your treasures be plundered again? By something far greater, more long-lived, more implacable than a dragon?”

Thorin closed his eyes, focusing on the feel of Bilbo’s soft hand against his cheek. “I will not, _umralê, uzbadê_. You know I will not.” Fear and anger still thrummed through him, but underneath it all was a quiet certainty, as solid and strong as stone. He had always done what he had to do for his people, and he always would.

Bilbo guided Thorin’s head down, tugging on his braids, and pressed a kiss on each of his eyelids. “You can defy anyone you like, Thorin Oakenshield,” said Bilbo, his voice trembling with love, with something greater, with something darker. “You’ve earned that right. And I would have you defy Mahal himself if you must, if it means we can both keep the things we love.”

Thorin nodded his assent. Bilbo always had explained things so well. He captured Bilbo’s silver tongue in a kiss, biting at his lips, tangling his deft fingers in the long curls that flowed like a river of gold down Bilbo’s back.

Bilbo was his. Bilbo would always be his, and they would love like this until the breaking of Arda.

When they finally parted, Bilbo lifted the chain that had carried the ring around his neck for 77 years, removed it with infinite care, and then—after a dark and difficult moment when Thorin feared he would not be able to part with it—Bilbo flung the ring and chain together out across the river, a bright star streaking across the dawn sky.

“Let the east be united,” said Thorin. “We accept.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Neo-Khuzdul Glossary**  
>  gabsh = "treasure"  
> umralê = "my beloved"  
> uzbadê = "my king" or "my lord"  
> “Gabshê, ashgamruki, ini mabihi zud id-uzbadu fanâd.” = "I'm sorry, my treasure, but we should befriend the elvenking."  
> “Astu lu huhud, ‘ibinê, ini lu mahariki hû.” = "You're not wrong, my jewel, but I don't like it."
> 
>  **Timelines**  
>  Events are based on the Third Age timelines found here:  
> http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Timeline/Third_Age  
> And here:  
> http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/Third_Age
> 
> Of course, since this is an alternate universe, things haven’t played out exactly the same. This fic covers the period from the Battle of the Five Armies (T.A. 2941) through _just before_ what might have been the War of the Ring (T.A. 3018).
> 
>  **Other Notes**  
>  Some dialogue in the darkest timeline version of the mithril scene is borrowed from the movie. 
> 
> Title is from Regina Spektor's ["The Flowers"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cO5evGShbmU).
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [@irrealis](http://irrealis.tumblr.com), crying about Bagginshield and writing all kinds of weird things.


End file.
